The Corpsman swallowed dryly. "Yeah, I hear you."

"And from now on, my name is Staff Sergeant Johnson. Understood?"

"I got it." Healy grimaced and shifted to look out his window. He didn't need to say what else was on his mind; Avery clearly saw "I got it, asshole," in the way he locked his arms across his chest.

As the sedan neared the end of the mall, Avery sped through an intersection past the imposing granite edifice of Harvest's parliament. The I-shaped building was surrounded by a low ironwork fence and well-manicured gardens. Its roof was thatched with sun-bleached wheat straw.

Avery had meant everything he said. But he also regretted it. He and Healy were essentially the same rank, but he'd just ordered him around like a raw recruit. And when did I become such a hypocrite? Avery wondered, tightening his grip on the wheel. His three-day bender back in the Zone wasn't the first time he'd ended up drunk in uniform.

Avery was preparing to deliver a terse apology when Healy muttered: "Oh, and Staff Sergeant Johnson? When you get a chance, pull over. Petty Officer First Class Healy needs to puke."

Three silent hours later, they were down the Bifrost and well out onto the Plain of Ida.

Epsilon Indi was setting in a pink and orange wash, above the perfectly straight, two-lane highway. Because of Harvest's small diameter, the horizon had a slight but noticeable curve—a bow in the fields of ripening wheat that had sprung up from the Ida after many hundreds of kilometers of fruit orchards. Avery had the sedan's windows down, and the air billowing through the cab was no longer unbearably hot. The Earth-relative UNSC military calendar said it was December. But on Harvest it was the height of summer—the middle of the growing season.

As the last of Epsilon Indi's rays slunk below the horizon, it got very dark very quickly.

There were no lights along the highway and no settlements in sight. Harvest had no moon, and while some of the system's four other planets shone unusually close, their reflected starshine wasn't enough to light the way ahead. As the sedan's headlamps came on, Avery spotted the exit marker and turned north off the highway.

The vehicle shuddered as it bit into the loose gravel of an upward sloping drive. A few gentle turns through the wheat and they reached a parade ground surrounded by very new, single-story polycrete buildings: mess hall, barracks, motor pool, and triage—the same rigid footprint Avery had seen many times before.

As he circled the sedan around the parade ground's flagpole, its headlights illuminated a man sitting on the mess hall steps, smoking a cigar. The scent wafting through the vehicle's windows was instantly recognizable: Sweet William, the preferred brand of pretty much every officer in the corps. When Avery brought the sedan to a stop and stepped out, he was quick to salute.

"At ease." Captain Ponder took a long drag from his cigar. "Johnson and Healy, correct?"

"Yes, sir!" the two soldiers replied together.

Ponder rose slowly from the steps. "Good to have you. Let me help you with your gear."

"That's alright, sir. Only got the two bags."

"Travel light, first to fight." The Captain smiled.

Adjusting for the steps, Avery could tell Ponder was a few inches shorter than he was, and a little less broad in the shoulders. He guessed the Captain's age was somewhere north of fifty.

But with his buzz-cut, salt-and-pepper hair, and well-tanned skin, he looked as vital as a man half his age, except for the fact that he was missing his right arm.

Avery noted that the sleeve of Ponder's fatigue shirt was cuffed to a phantom elbow and pinned neatly to his side. Then he stopped staring. He had seen plenty of amputees. But it was rare to meet an active-duty marine that wasn't fitted with a permanent prosthetic.

Ponder nodded toward the sedan. "Sorry about the civilian vehicle. Warthogs were supposed to be here a week ago. Shipping delay, if you can believe it. I've got my other platoon-leader in Utgard, trying to track them down."

"What about the recruits?" Avery asked, pulling the duffels from the sedan.

"Monday. We've got the whole weekend to set up shop."

Avery shut the trunk. As soon as he stepped away, the vehicle reversed around the flagpole and traced its furrows back down to the highway.

"Which platoon is mine?" Avery asked.

"First." Ponder pointed his cigar at one of the two barracks on the southern edge of the parade ground.

Healy hefted his duffel onto his shoulder. "You got me bunking with the grunts, sir?"

"Just until you clear a space in triage. Someone in logistics ordered a shitload of supplies.

Must have confused this garrison with some CSH on Tribute."

Healy chuckled. Avery did not; he was all too familiar with the kind of casualties a combat support hospital received.

"Mess hall dispensers are working if you want anything," the Captain continued.

"Otherwise, get some rest. I've scheduled a briefing for zero seven thirty to go over the training schedule—make sure we kick-off the first phase right."

"Anything else for tonight, sir?" Avery asked.

Ponder clamped his cigar tightly in his teeth. "Nothing that can't wait until morning."

Avery watched the ashen tip of Ponder's cigar flare in the darkness. Then he saluted, and marched off to the 1st platoon barracks, Healy trailing behind through the shifting gravel.

The Captain watched them traverse the pools of light cast by the parade ground's elevated arc lights. Some things, he knew, couldn't wait. Ponder tossed his cigar and ground it with his boot. Then he took his own path to his private quarters adjacent the motor pool.

Half an hour later, Avery was unpacked. All his gear was neatly stowed in a wall-locker in his platoon-leader's rack—a small room at the front of the barracks to one side of its screen- door entrance. He could hear Healy at the back of the barracks, still pulling items from his duffels—humming to himself as he arranged them on his bed.

"Hey. Staff Sergeant Johnson," the Corpsman shouted. "You got some soap?"

Avery gritted his teeth. "Check the showers."

As painful as it was to have Healy now taking pleasure in Avery's previous order—tossing his formality back in his face—the Staff Sergeant was glad he could hear the Corpsman through the walls of his room. Avery knew from experience that a large part of a drill instructor's job was simply keeping exhausted recruits from taking their frustrations out on one another—to be the focus of their anger, and, if he did his job right, their eventual admiration.

But Avery also knew that some days his platoon would return to the barracks pissed-off and itching for a fight precisely because he'd ground them down. At least he'd be able to hear any commotion from his rack and be able to break it up before things got out of hand.

"Look, it's only one night," Healy continued in a conciliatory tone. "If I can't get triage ship-shape tomorrow, I'll just bunk with what's his name."

"You mean the Captain?" Avery asked. He threw a brown wool blanket over his bed.

Regardless of the heat, he needed to show his recruits how to make a proper bed.

"No, the other platoon leader. Hang on, I'll check my COM."

Avery smoothed the blanket with wide sweeps of his palms. Then he started on the corners —tight hospital folds that would have made his own drill instructor proud.

"Byrne," Healy hollered. "Staff Sergeant Nolan Byrne."

Avery froze, his hands stuffed halfway under his mattress. The open coils of the bed frame bit into his palms.

"You know him?"

Avery completed the corner. He stood and reached for his pillow and case. "Yes."

"Huh. Did you know he was gonna be here?"

"No." Avery stuffed the pillow with a practiced thrust.

"You two friends?"

Avery wasn't quite sure how to answer that. "I've known him a long time."

"Oh, now I get it," Healy's voice changed pitch, signaling an incoming jibe. "You lovebirds start spending too much time together, and I might get jealous." Avery heard the Corpsman snicker then run the zipper of his duffel. "So what do you think the story is with the Captain's arm?"

But Avery didn't answer. He was focused on the loudening growl of a Warthog light- reconnaissance vehicle's engine as it raced up from the highway. The Warthog came to a hasty stop outside the barracks door. Its engine roared and died, and soon Avery heard the crunch of approaching boots.

Quickly, Avery paced to his locker, parted his neat piles of shirts and pants and removed a patent-leather belt with a bright brass buckle stamped with the UNSC eagle and globe emblem.

Behind him, the barrack's door swung open. Avery felt a chill on the back of his neck.

"That's a well made bed," Staff Sergeant Byrne said. "After a month in the hospital, you get an eye for that sort of thing."

Avery coiled his belt tight enough to hide it in the palm of his hand, shut the locker, and turned to face his former fellow squad-leader. Byrne no longer wore the helmet with the silver mirrored visor he'd had on the day Avery failed to shoot the Innie woman in the restaurant—the day Byrne had lost all the members of his squad. But he might as well have had it on. His ice- blue eyes were just as impenetrable.

"Because of all the changes," Byrne explained with a sneer. "Piss and shite all over the sheets because I was too doped to control myself. When the nurses gave me new ones, they'd always tuck them in too tight or not tight enough."

"It's good to see you, Byrne."

"But that?" Byrne continued, ignoring Avery's greeting. "That's a well-made bed."

Fresh, pink scars crinkled the Irish Staff Sergeant's already rugged face—evidence that his helmet's visor had shattered in the Innie blast. A jagged stitch from a shrapnel injury ran from his left temple up and over his ear. His black hair must have burned completely away; even though it was cut regulation short, Avery could see it was coming back in patches.

"I'm glad you're alright," Avery said.

"Are you now?" Byrne's brogue had begun to thicken. After years of soldiering together, Avery understood exactly what that meant. But he wanted Byrne to know one thing.

"They were all good men. I'm sorry."

Byrne shook his head. "Not sorry enough."

For such a large man, Byrne moved with amazing speed. He sprung at Avery, arms wide, and slammed him back against the locker. He locked his hands behind Avery's back and squeezed, threatening to break his ribs. As much as it hurt, Avery sucked in a breath and brought his forehead crashing down on Byrne's nose. Byrne grunted, his grip faltered, and he staggered back.

In a flash, Avery ducked around behind him, belt stretched between his hands. He looped it over Byrne's neck, and pulled it tight. Byrne's eyes widened. Avery wasn't trying to kill his fellow marine, just get him under control. Byrne outweighed him by at least twenty kilos, and Avery wanted him out for the count as quickly as possible.

But Byrne wasn't about to let that happen. With a strained but mighty cry he reached over his shoulders and grabbed Avery's wrists—leaned forward and brought Avery high on his back.

Then Byrne proceeded to slam Avery against the rooms wooden walls with such force that the painted plywood began to splinter.

Avery's teeth shuddered. He tasted blood in his mouth. But every time Byrne leaned forward for another backward thrust, Avery tightened his belt. Byrne began to wheeze. Avery could see the veins in his neck strain and his ears begin to purple. But an instant before Byrne lost consciousness, he brought the heel of his boot up between Avery's legs—right into his unprotected groin.

In the few seconds before he seized up, Avery hooked a foot around Byrne's shins and tripped him onto his bed. Byrne fell short, cracked his forehead on the bed frame, and went limp. As Avery rolled him over—raised a fist to finish the job—a debilitating ache spread from his groin to his arm. Byrne's eyes blinked, trying to clear away the blood flowing from a jagged cut, and Avery threw a half-speed punch. But Byrne was only dazed. He raised a massive hand, and caught Avery's fist in his iron grip.

"Why didn't you take the shot?" Byrne grunted.

"There were civilians," Avery groaned.

Byrne slammed his other palm up into Avery's gut, bunching his fatigue shirt in his fist.

With a powerful thrust of his hips, he flipped Avery over his shoulders toward the barrack's door. The air exploded from Avery's lungs as he landed flat on his back in the narrow hallway outside his rack.

"You had an order!" Byrne growled, rising to his feet.

Avery's chest heaved as he picked himself off the floor. "There was a kid; a boy."

"What about my team?!"

Byrne lumbered toward Avery and threw a high right jab. But Avery blocked it with his left forearm, and countered with a powerful, right-hand swipe. As Byrne's head snapped sideways, Avery brought a knee up into his kidneys. But Byrne collapsed against the blow, and drove him back against the hallway wall. Avery felt his left shoulder dislocate then pop back into place.

He blinked his eyes against the pain, giving Byrne an opening. The other Staff Sergeant quickly throttled him around the neck.

"They taught you to be a killer, Avery. They taught us both." Byrne slid him up the wall until his boots were twitching half a meter off the floor. The barrack's fluorescent lights seemed to dim, and Avery saw stars. He tried to kick himself free. But it was no use. "You can't hide from that," Byrne sneered. "And you sure as hell can't hide from me."

Avery was about to pass out when he heard the metallic snap of someone working a pistol's slide.

"Staff Sergeant Byrne." Captain Ponder said firmly. "Stand down."

Byrne tightened his grip on Avery's throat. "This is private business."

"Drop him, or I shoot."

"Bullshit."

"No, marine." The Captain's voice was deadly calm. "It most certainly is not."

Byrne released his hands. Avery dropped and slumped back against the wall. Gasping, he looked toward the barrack's door. The Captain held an M6 service pistol in a prosthetic replacement for his missing arm. Avery could see the bright titanium joints that were Ponder's fingers and the carbon-fiber weave of his forearm musculature.